


Dream On

by Velvetoscar



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fairytale-esque, M/M, POV First Person, Whimsical, based off of The Portrait of Mr. W.H., everyone is eccentric and pretentious and poetic and chaotic, the entire thing is just weird, there's a hint of Liam/Niall but it's just hints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 06:43:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3519284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velvetoscar/pseuds/Velvetoscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace and beauty; but I don’t know how to do it.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream On

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiiiiiiii, wolfies!
> 
> So. I tried to write something that was difficult for me, so I chose the cringe-inducing task of writing in first person! Yay! I also attempted to keep this brief and dreamlike and vague... Because I often write far too much. This is loosely based on "The Portrait of Mr. W.H."! (Read it! I think it's so wonderful....)
> 
> Title taken from Aerosmith's "Dream On", which I listened to while forming the very beginnings of this story and continued to listen to while writing. Praise.
> 
> Dedicated to Oscar Wilde and his worship of beauty, ostentatious, grand existence, and his infinitely loving soul. Also dedicated to Pixie, who created this entire ficathon and inspires dull things to become meaningful. Love you :)

The first time I heard the name Louis Tomlinson, it was on a spectacularly mediocre night spent at the residence of Liam Payne.

It was a muggy evening, one that casted a cloudy gloom over the orange hum of the streetlights; it clung to my clothes, soaking into the shine of my black boots, and left a mildly discomforting mist within my curls that I half-heartedly attempted to tamp down with one cold hand, the other shoved firmly in the pocket of my black coat. It was a wonderful black coat—long enough to be mysterious but simple enough to remain anonymous. On dull days, it made me feel like Sherlock Holmes, made me feel a little cleverer than I sometimes perceived I was. It’s the little things, you know.

Thus, bedraggled in the night’s moisture, I found myself standing at Liam’s door, gently rapping upon it with all the unlit expectancy of one who had yet to make their night’s plans. It was a Friday, it was gloomy, and I was perpetually unsatisfied with the world at my feet.

“Harry,” Liam had greeted peaceably the minute the door was opened. He looked much the same as he usually does—quietly amiable with traces of insecurity in his quick brown eyes, his hair gelled with all the immaculate care of one who simply tries. Unusual, however, was his attire. On the day to day, Liam Payne could almost always be found with clothes that rarely strayed from a simple t-shirt and jeans, with the odd exception of a flannel or two.

Yet on that night, Liam was nearly resplendent in fine black trousers, a pristinely white button-up, and a copper tie that did wonders for the softness of his smile. I watched approvingly as he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, rolling up his sleeves with practiced nonchalance as he regarded me with thick, expectant eyebrows.

“Liam,” I greeted back lazily, watching his movements. “It’s me.”

A delicate smirk twitched across his lips. “Yes, I see that.”

“May I?”

“Of course, yeah, of course,” he’d insisted, brushing me inside before shutting the door behind me.

His flat was as it always was—very, very sparse. Liam claimed to be a minimalist, you see. Nothing filled his white walls, save for the bare necessities. Fridge, microwave, stove. One table. Toilet, shower, sink. Bed. Laptop, sitting on the floor by itself. Two chairs. A small collection of grasshoppers in a rickety wire cage that lay below the thin stretch of window, next to a seemingly purposeless alchemy lab that must’ve been a century old at least. No pictures, no television. Minimalist.

On certain days, I found it charming. Others, I found it fanciful.

I settled myself down in one of the chairs, never bothering to remove my jacket, the cold still lingering in my limbs. Casting my eyes to the corner of the room, I made a brief acknowledgment of the figure standing there, shrouded in the shadow thrown by the lone light fixture buckled to the peeled ceiling.

“Niall,” I greeted calmly as the figure met my eye over the bottle in his hands.

Nodding, he brought it to his lips, the murky green glass of Jameson whiskey painting him sickly. As per usual, he was wearing his pale trenchcoat, the flaps opened and dirty. The jeans that clung to his spindly legs were ripped, revealing his pale scratches of skin, and his hair was a pleasant mix of black and blonde, falling sloppily over one eye. He grinned, but only in the span of a mere second, his eyes still remaining on me as he made no move to shake my hand nor sit.

Niall’s always been an odd one. He always seemed to be slinking in corners, strung out on drugs or drink, and piecing together nothing. He was clumsy and unpoetic but spectacularly and unapologetically himself, as well as being a fine and famous bullshitter. His way with words may not have been beautiful but it was always effective. I could admire that in a man. Especially when it’s paired by fair blue eyes and the lyrical lilt of an Irish accent. Sometimes I wondered if Liam was in love with him.

“We’ve just come back,” Liam said, breezing into the room with a quiet hum of electricity. He rubbed the skin of his neck with one hand, eyes lifted to the ceiling. Briefly, Niall’s eyes shot to him. “We were at an art show.”

“An art show?” I questioned, motioning for Liam to pour me a drink as he began to pour his own.

He nodded, eyes still very far away. Amber liquid swirled into my glass, twirling at what appeared to be slow-motion. I watched it before pressing the burning, lukewarm liquid to my lips, swallowing it down in one gulp. Liam looked over to Niall.

“Yes, a friend of mine’s was displayed tonight,” he replied, eyes still on the Irishman. “Zayn Malik.” A soft brown gaze swerved to settle on me, lit by a fire that I’ve never quite seen there before. “Have you heard of him?”

I shook my head, setting down my now-empty glass on the chocolate wood floorboards. “I have not. Is he very special, I wonder?” I asked mockingly, raising my eyebrow as I wiped residual liquid off my lips with the back of my hand.

You see, occasionally, Liam and Niall would claim to find the world’s newest treasure—a new innovative creative source (usually in the form of a homeless poet, a maddened violinist, or a radical political youth with twitching hands and a penchant for fire) which they could cling to, sucking inspiration from so their lives would momentarily shine a bit brighter. I always found their antics rather uneventful; why should I draw from another when I had myself? Others always left me unimpressed. Dissatisfied.

Liam must’ve noted my typical lack of interest, the condescension in my grin, for again, his eyes fell sharply upon me, something bursting in his irises like a gritty projection of an atomic bomb. “He is a genius, I assure you,” he whispered, clearly altered chemically. It made Niall snicker, mouth hidden behind the glass of his bottle, electric blue eyes dancing between us as he watched from the shadows.

“Ah,” I dragged with feigned interest, nodding my head and keeping the smile tucked into the corners of my mouth. “Yes, a genius. May you tell me why?”

The words formed before mine left my lips. “He paints only his muse, Harry. He paints nothing but the most beautiful, abstract, intangible portraits of his muse.”

“His muse?” I questioned, laughter coloring my tone. “What say you of this muse? Niall? Niall, do _you_ have a muse? Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

Niall laughed, briefly lowering his bottle to gesture towards Liam. “There lie my muse,” he said with an easiness that defied the wideness of his pupils.

I sniggered as I adjusted my rings, glancing up at Liam who still seemed lost in whatever it was that he was feeling.

“He paints of a muse, lads,” he insisted yet again. “And this muse of his… He is more beautiful than any other, I imagine.”

“Have you not seen his beauty depicted in this genius’ work for yourself? Are there no likenesses to look upon?” I questioned, startled, still on the verge of mockery and laughter.

But Liam merely gazed at me, something dim and fuzzy settling in his face. “No. No, he’s never painted his portrait, you see. He only paints what this man makes him _feel._ There is but one likeness to him, however— _The Portrait of the Eye_.”

I was unable to keep myself from laughter. “ _The Portrait of the Eye?_ ” I questioned, once again glancing to Niall, who smiled briefly over the lip of the bottle. “How very ominous. Exciting.”

Demurely, Liam smiled. “’Tis a beautiful eye, Harry. The eye of Louis Tomlinson.”

The sound of the name startled me.

Why, I knew not… For all I was familiar with it, it was merely a jumble of consonants and vowels. I’d never heard the name Louis Tomlinson before, never thought it, never spoke it—and yet, hearing it in the quiet, dim lighting of Liam Payne’s flat, it struck me in an oddly sobering way.

“What a lovely name for a muse,” I replied, voice lulled into softness by my momentary stupor. I looked up at the man before me. “Who is he?”

Shrugging, Liam settled himself on the floor, lying on his back and stretching his arms sideways. Fingertips reaching towards the farthest ends of the earth. “I don’t know. Never heard of him. He’s not at uni, I don’t think. Nobody’s heard of him.”

The thought somehow struck me even harder. It was inexplicable.

“In fact,” he continued, raising himself on one elbow, “there are whispers wondering if he even exists at all.”

My eyes snapped up. “You think him to be imaginary?”

Liam shrugged, eyes still glittering. “Perhaps. Nobody alive could evoke such beauty in another, I don’t think. In fact, yes, I think perhaps he is fake after all.”  He lay back down, staring at the ceiling. Shadows deepened the hollows of his eyes. 

“He doesn’t bloody exist,” Niall added from his corner, wiping at his lips with two dirty fingers. Probably tobacco stained. Perhaps ink stained—Niall’s taken to vandalism as of late, claiming that nobody can truly own property and that the freedom of speech is only useful if it’s practiced by way of the written word. “Zayn’s a bit mad, like the best of them. There is no Louis Tomlinson.”

For reasons I knew not, the very idea outraged me.

“Surely, you’ll give the man’s existence a chance?” I argued, brows pulling together. I looked betwixt the two, clutching the thin wood of the armrest. “Just because you’ve never heard of him—“

“Harry, wiser men have gone mad trying to figure out the inner workings of artists,” Liam mused, quirking his head to meet my eye. Amusement danced within his own. “Zayn is purely genius, I assure you. And I assure you that we will take his very soul under our wings, won’t we Niall?” Niall nodded, eyes never blinking. “But this Louis Tomlinson… He is but a figment of the mind. In fact, if he were true, it would diminish Zayn’s prowess, wouldn’t you say?”

I pondered the idea, watching the light dance upon the silver of my rings. “What is so brilliant about him? This Louis Tomlinson? Tell me. I am curious, given the way you speak in regards to him.” I glanced through my curtain of long, unruly hair, twisted up in tangled curls. “Tell me about Zayn’s work.”

“He’s mad,” Niall whispered first, as Liam hummed and stared in distance thoughtfully. “He paints the senses, Harry.” He thrust his bottle with every word, the liquid sloshing wildly inside. “The feel of skin, of breath, the taste of another. He paints it in his colors and his patterns and these—these hands, he paints—“ He fell quiet then, turning to stare out the window, moonlight suddenly casting him in silver. It was the first time he’d properly moved all night. “He’s fucking brilliant. And mad. And _The Portrait of The Eye_ is his best work yet. You should see it for yourself, Harry. It’s beyond us, ain’t it, Liam? But it still fucks you up, strikes you with its ferocity. Intense shit. I hope to never be healed.” He took a violent swig from the bottle. “Fucking never.”

“Hm,” Liam agreed, still searching for his words within the crisp, cracked paint of the ceiling. “Zayn gives everything the illusion of mystery. Louis Tomlinson is his greatest enigma. Everybody’s talking about him. And he doesn’t exist!” He laughed, delighted. “Brilliant, innit.”

But something deep churned inside of me, truly unsettled by the words filling the room. I had no real interest in Zayn Malik—Liam and Niall’s obsessions came and went as often as the tide or the phases of the moon—but this Louis Tomlinson…

I had never before searched for inspiration in another. Never had I felt the need to feel anything but myself. But, surely, if such a soul existed, what must he be like? To provide such artistic greatness within another? If he was the source of such wild passion and ardor?

There was no reason to my ponderings and yet I felt more than drawn to the mystery of the man.

“I believe in Louis Tomlinson,” I said quietly, after the silent moments had stretched. I felt both sets of eyes flit to me, soft as the fluttering of moths above. “I will find him.”

“Do not trouble yourself, mate,” Liam grunted, appearing to come down from whatever it was that he had spiritually climbed. He tucked his hands into his chest, eyes tightly shut. “We’ve all looked. We’ve asked around. Never heard of him.”

“I believe in Louis Tomlinson,” I repeated, firmer this time, and it made Liam sigh and Niall shrug.

“Find him, then,” Niall had merely replied, indifferent as he watched the bleakness of night. “But don’t reveal him. Don’t destroy Zayn’s muse.”

“Artistic integrity,” Liam murmured.

“The inspiration of life,” Niall agreed.

The words were nonsense.

“I will find him,” I said as both indulged my random flight of fancy. I stood, emboldened by this seemingly random thirst. “I want to look upon Zayn’s work. I want to see. Is the show still going?”

“Until midnight,” Liam mumbled, disappearing into the floorboards. It was this quiet reply that finally dragged Niall from the window, leaving him to settle on the floor beside him, coat still on and fanning out at his sides like wings. The bottle of whiskey was almost empty and sat between them. “Go, if you must. Chase your shadows.”

It was just as I was shutting the door to the flat behind me that I heard Niall’s muttered words.

“He will never find him. He chases air and dreams.”

I walked with further determination.

*

When I had at last stumbled upon the art show, I had found the glory of the sparsely filled room, lit with fluorescents and defined by concrete. There was a larger assembly than I was expecting, all wondering around with their velvety words and clinking jewelry, rucksacks hanging off of their bony shoulders, scarves haphazardly twined around pale necks. A murmured hum filled the room, pleasant but far away, yet it only served to irk me as I searched the white walls, the sculptures, the meaningless art—

Until I stopped in my tracks. For, before me, was an enormous painting, nearly taking up the entire expanse of the wall. It was washed in black, in white light, in the cosmos. It shone with a delicate shine of glitter that only a second’s glance could comprehend. Black mixed with blue and birthed purple amidst a poisonous twirl of green and, from there, the light dipped into the cracks. Amidst it all was the eye.

It was incomparable, this…eye, as it was. But it was more than an eye, it was an emotion I had yet to name. Though I had never been a particularly sentimental creature, content in filling my life with only the bare essentials of pleasant conversation, florals, and a rather refined palate in all things, I was left speechless as I stood in front of an eye so beautiful, it had yet to call upon words adequate enough to describe it. The hue was of a blue that I’d yet to discover. The arch of it was whimsical in ways I never knew to appreciate before. It was purely mischief, it was life, it was emptiness and relentless beauty and it filled the entirety of that room.

Since nobody was around, I took it upon myself to delicately trace a hand across its sparkling cornea. It felt gritty, chunky, perfect. It felt like I was housing an immeasurable beauty in the confines of my skin.

Breathless, I took a step back, reveling in the entirety of the painting.

_The Portrait of the Eye_

I fell madly in love. If such a feeling exists outside the confines of a momentary lapse of reason, I had found it. I was in love. With an idea, an eye, an existence… A person.

Louis Tomlinson.

I whispered the name in the silence, whispered it again to match it to the colors before me.

“I will find you,” I promised to the endless beauty before me. “I will search and I will find you.”

*

I stayed at the gallery until midnight before I was finally ushered away by a curt gentleman in a camouflage jumper. I was anything but put-out, however. Because I had walked every aisle, memorized every splash of paint, and felt every corner of every image that Zayn Malik had created, all in the name of Louis Tomlinson. I had devoured the work. And I fell only deeper, convinced of the magical existence of immortals, believing in a higher power.

Louis Tomlinson seemed to be the very thing of tragic, electric beauty that I’d never before yearned, but now suddenly craved. While my own life carried me happily in its luxury, I found myself desiring just the mere sight of this creature. Just a glimpse at what he was composed of, of how his bones were formed. I wondered if his voice was as delicate as the paintings led me to believe. I wondered if the grit beneath this nails truly existed or if it was merely a foolish dream my youthful mind concocted in the small span of hours.

I needed to know. And I determined to find out.

*

The very next night, I found myself, once again, at Liam’s door.

“Harry,” he greeted simply, smile in place. This time he was back to his jeans and t-shirt combination, something that made everything suddenly seem far more normal, and I felt mildly more at ease. “Come in.”

I entered without a word, fumbling to tuck errant strands of hair behind my ears as I swayed across his floors, hands in my jacket’s pockets. I wore all black in hopes to blend with the night. Something about the previous night’s discovery had made me feel remarkably open and exposed, unsure of the world’s perception of me. Or perhaps I was going mad in the mere span of twenty-four hours.

However, as I took in the room before me, I startled. For, accompanying Niall in the shadows, smoking a cigarette, was a very beautiful raven boy, lips made of curled smoke.

“This is Zayn, Harry,” Liam introduced, his hand on my back as he ushered me forward.

Zayn breathed, handing his cigarette to Niall as he nodded, eyes watching me quietly.

“You paint Louis Tomlinson,” was all that came out of my surprised mouth, my twisted innards quivering. It was fascinating, what this phantom presence was doing to me.

Briefly, a darkness flashed in his eyes. “I do,” he’d replied slowly, voice husky and soft. “I paint nothing else.”

I nodded, staring unblinkingly as Liam glanced between us, making his way towards the pair. “Will you tell me of his existence? His whereabouts?”

It was forward but I had no time for pleasantries, nor have I ever been one to dance around a subject that I hold crucial to my makeup.

Again, something unsettled revealed itself in Zayn’s features. “I will not,” he replied swiftly, before pinching back his cigarette and taking a longer drag, ripping his gaze away.

The look of reprimand I received from Liam did anything but shame me. Rather, I continued. “Even if I wish to find him?” I pressed, words unrelenting as I took a step further. “He seems to inspire great things in you, Zayn. Would you begrudge the curiosity of such a feeling in another?”

“I would begrudge you, yes,” he murmured, still avoiding my eye, and it made me sigh, feeling more frustrated than I thought capable. “It’s a road countless have travelled, I’ll give you that. But it is not a road _I_ wish to part with.” The fist he housed in the pocket of his jacket tightened with the words, a small slip of paper in his clutch.

Curiosity inspired me. “What do you mean?” I asked, staring him down as the world burned around me, needing and seeking. I required answers. “What is this road you speak of?”

“Leave it, Harry,” Niall said, words firm as they were flippant. He was leaning against the wall, trenchcoat on, shuffling a deck of cards. He had a cut on his finger and the cigarette, dangling between his lips, emitted enough smoke to cloak his face.

Liam watched curiously, opening his bottle of beer with a sharp click.

I sighed, this time defeated. “Then I suppose I am of no use to anyone here,” I said, feeling an immeasurable heaviness. “My thoughts are cloudy tonight, friends. I wish to be alone, I think. Purely alone.”

“Save for the company of your thoughts?” Liam asked, offering me a bottle.

I took it, immediately taking a swig that upended the room. “Exactly,” I managed after I’d gulped down an impressively large amount. I swiped a hand over my lip. “They’re a boisterous bunch.”

“I can only imagine.”

Silence reigned as I finished my drink, watching as Niall and Zayn devoured cigarettes and casted lazy eyes upon me.

“We’re going to go out and expand our senses,” Liam said after a moment, by way of explanation, I presume. He was shuffling on his jacket, patting the pockets for his wallet. “We’re determined to see the world as Zayn does.”

“Oh?” I asked, bitterness tingeing my words as I turned to the aforementioned. “Will you take _them_ to your muse, then?”

Zayn’s eyes cut through me in lieu of a response.

“You can join us or you can leave, Harry. I’ll welcome either. But choose now,” Niall spoke, glancing up as he shuffled, shuffled, shuffled. The cards slapped against each other, a harsh sound in the room. “So. Will you join us for a game?” Grinning, he held up The Joker.

The choice was easy.

“I will find you on your next adventure, lads,” I replied, already backing out of the room. “For now, I’ve only to surrender to my mind.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Niall murmured with a roll of his eyes. “He’s on one of his trips again, Liam.”

Liam looked rather pouty about the affair. “Do take care of yourself, Harry,” he replied, as earnestly as he was capable of. “Don’t wind up at the bottom of the well again, yeah? For someone very shallow, you certainly feel a vast depth of emotion.”

I grinned, hand on the doorknob. “I’ve never been shallow when it comes to myself, Liam. You know that. I’ve always been swallowed whole by my very existence. Lost within the maze, if you will.”

And, with that, I wrenched open the door and left, leaving  a trickle of exasperated sighs in my wake.

*

For weeks, I looked for Louis Tomlinson.

I sat in coffee shops from morning till night. I watched passerby on benches, charting the sun’s path. I skulked the perimeters of the university, I inquired at the local pubs, and I drove myself up every fucking wall with the ardent passion I held for finding him.

Nobody knew of him. Nobody at all.

The worst was, I knew not what I was looking for. I had no face to place upon this creature. I had only a name, an eye, a flurry of symbols and colors. I had only a vision that left me sleepless and empty, yearning for something far greater than some meaningless conversation and top-shelf vodka could provide. The idea of Louis Tomlinson inspired a thirst within me that I could not quench. And so I searched and searched, weeks upon weeks, time crawling by in mocking increments.

“Have you found your man?” Niall asked one night as we sat upon the cracked pavement of the sidewalk, staring at the stars. Liam was off buying cigarettes and sketchbooks for the lot of us, determined to fumigate his soul and force it upon paper.

“I think I’m going mad,” I responded, eyes never blinking. The heels of my boots dug into the ground, the cold sheer of my shirt leaving the night’s chill to soak into my skin.

“You should become an artist, then,” Niall reasoned. “They’re brilliant at being mad. You’ve got shit else to do with your life, besides. Can’t just coast on your money forever, can you? You’ve got to find some purpose, Harry. It’s got to be boring being you, Christ.”

“I can assure you I am very fulfilled with the pleasantries of financial dominance, Niall,” I replied easily, words calm. “It’s just that I wish to understand what this man makes me feel. For a ghost, he certainly inspires me to reality.”

“You will chase him only into your dreams, mate.” He clapped a hand to my shoulder. “But that’s all.”

“Then I will live amongst my dreams.”

“Oi! Lads!”

We lifted our heads in time to see Liam trotting towards us, weighed down by plastic bags. “I’ve got plenty of weed upstairs but a friend just gave me this incredible shit… Shall we head up?”

We breathed our acquiescence as I felt the chains within me tighten.

I sketched but one thing that night, spiraled into drug-addled sublimity. It was a single phrase, etched in the bleeding black ink of a broken fountain pen, an ink that bled through my shirt and seeped into the pads of my fingers, bruising the stretch of my arms.

_I believe in Louis Tomlinson._

*

Months had passed. Months and months of nothing and yet I still quietly searched for him, still quietly hoped of his existence that I knew to be true.

I still attended Zayn’s art shows in my desperation for a glimpse at the man I sought, though there was no love lost between the artist and I. A mutual weariness filled our silences and nothing else.

As expected, Niall and Liam’s worship of him, his lifestyle, and his art began to wane, even as I insisted of its brilliance. But they merely shook their heads, determined to find a new medium of art and existence, convinced it lie in the nomadic presence of an eccentric personality named Nicholas Grimshaw. I only met him in passing and he was sure to be a dramatic, odd character, certainly the type to catch their fancy with his witty exclamations and wild perceptions of reality.

But it was only one personality that I sought. Everything else was pointless.

Thus, it was with all the weighted sadness of one who suffers the beginnings of rejection that I found myself standing in the rain one day, looking sadly up at the words displayed upon the theatre.

 _Hamlet_ , it said. _Friday-Saturday-Sunday. Free for students_.

It seemed perfectly mocking and tragic, completely in line with the rain collecting on the shoulders of my black jacket, of the rain that transformed my hair into lifeless snakes curling against my neck with hot irritation. I walked inside, nabbed a ticket with pruny hands, and settled in the crushed velvet of my seat, high up in the back, in the dark.

I was barely aware of my surroundings as the curtain raised and the play began. I was only half-conscious of my existence, too lost in my sad thoughts and frustrated dissatisfaction, to absorb a single word.

That is, until I saw him.

It was as if a bolt of lightning had struck me down, right there in the silence of that theatre.

It was him. Louis Tomlinson.

And while I had no evidence, I was completely sure of it.

Feeling a livened buzz flit through my bloodstream, I straightened in my seat, eyes widening as they focused on the man who graced the stage with his most supreme and ethereal beauty. It was him—no other could it be. With his incomparable beauty, quickness of word and body, and effortless grace, it was him. In the startling blue of his eyes that I could yet make out from my distance, in the nimble lay of his bones, in the pure melody of his words… It was Louis Tomlinson.

I had found him at last.

And, oh… He was a vision. He was something far greater than I could have ever concocted on my own. His beautifully disheveled hair was brown with a luster beyond comparison, a metallic gleam to every strand. His skin was pale and flawless, pinched pink at his cheeks and lying soft beneath his arched blue eyes of fervor. His body was small, compact and tight, shapely as he moved with his entire being, hips dominating his every turn and twist, the sweetly nimble bits of his ankles leading him effortlessly around as if he were floating upon air. His words were bloody poetry, his manner of acting effortless and entrancing and, dear god! I was gone. I was completely, immeasurably gone, even moreso than I had been at his mere name. I had found him, I had found the ghost that haunted me all these months, I had found that which I felt to be missing. And it was glorious.

I watched the entirety of the play with new eyes, soaking in every detail and moment with a savoring vigor.

I loved him. Of this, I knew to be true. It was so large and nonsensical of a feeling that I never even questioned it, just understood its intensity to be real. And thus, after I’d clapped with almost manic fervor when he took the stage to bow and the curtain fell, snapping him away from me, I stood before I even had time to consider my actions.

I would find him. I would meet him. There was nothing else to be done.

*

I waited for him outside, leaning against the brick wall of the building. People scattered out of the doors in herds, tittering about the performance and making their next plans for the evening. The moon was high, the air was cool, and my lungs quivered with anticipation as I watched every passing face, body tense.

It was only when I went to check my watch that I heard the unmistakable satin of Zayn Malik’s voice.

Startled, I moved off of the wall, turning until I found the source—which happened to be right around the corner of the building, shrouded in the gritty gloom of the alleyway.

“If you’d just let me love you—“

Zayn’s voice again. It sharpened ice crystals inside of me.

“I don’t want to be _loved_ , don’t you understand?” came the second voice and—oh! There he was. Louis Tomlinson.

I breathed, stepping from the shadows and watching the scene before me: Zayn holding Louis’ hand with reverence, beseeching with all the wounded beauty of an artist. Louis, ragged and devastatingly beautiful in a large, worn brown jacket as he pulled away, the lines of his face marred with faint sadness and overwhelming indifference.

“I am not a bird to be caged by your heart,” the boy murmured, though if he was attempting gentleness, it fell short. He withdrew his hand, surveying Zayn only briefly before he made to walk away. “You have a beautiful way about you, Artist. But I am nothing more than a fleeting inspiration for all of you. I suggest you search for something a bit more real.”

And he walked away, leaving Zayn alone, head hung in shame. It was obvious that this was not their first encounter, nor Zayn’s first rejection. Still though, it seemed entirely too fragile to shatter so I avoided plowing forward, mind racing as I sought for a solution, yearning to chase after the boy.

I cut across someone’s lawn and slunk past a dumpster in order to catch him. It was more exertion that I’d troubled myself with in years and I’d most likely ruined my finest set of trousers, but I couldn’t bother myself with any of that as Louis’ lone figure came into sharper focus.

My hand encircled his arm at the very moment I called his name.

“Louis,” I breathed, more sure of myself in that moment than I’d ever been.

It was with a gasp that he froze, turning on the spot and allowing my grip to hold him in place.

“That name—“ he said, eyes finding mine. He seemed more shocked by my utterance than my presence. “How did you—“

“You are infinitely beautiful,” I found myself saying, words spilling from slackened lips. I was unable to control myself now that I was under the surrender of his startling gaze. So utterly ethereal. So very breathtaking. I was in love, in every way the body could be.

But Louis looked largely unfazed, eyes flickering across my face. “How do you know that name?” he asked me, quiet as the whispering grassblades. “Are you another one? Another artist seeking your paltry inspiration?”

I stepped closer, letting my hand drift gently down his arm before releasing him. It felt like fire engulfing me. I ignored his words, only focusing on the treasures that lie before me. “You are Louis Tomlinson,” I said calmly, quietly. “And I’ve found you.”

A sharp intake of breath separated us, his gaze tightening on mine. “I don’t—I don’t go by that name anymore. So unless you’re one of _them_ , I’m not sure how—“

“What name do you wish me to call you?” I asked softly, watching the light play upon his face.

There was just one beat of silence before his delicate, flushed lips parted on a sentence.

“I am referred to as Lewis Austen,” he replied quietly before swallowing, turning fully to me and casting me in the shadow of his brilliant glory. He seemed hesitant but there was something, perhaps the same something within myself, that seemed drawn to me, pulling him forward. “But you may refer to me as the former, if you wish. I… I have no preference. Not after all these years.”

The words held stories and countless questions and yet I didn’t wish to press them. The past was an intriguing mistress but the present was all that remained essential to me.

“I find the former fits you perfectly,” I said quietly, daring to take a step closer. He allowed it, still watching me with bright eyes and a lifeless mouth. “For I find it as refreshing on the tongue as your acting is to my eyes and ears. You embody the stage, Mr. Tomlinson.” The words quivered in the air, the reverence I poured into them the most earnest I’d ever given.

“Louis,” he corrected mindlessly, allowing me to take yet another step closer to him. A light breeze carried through the air, ruffling his bronze hair and slipping beneath the opened flaps of my jacket. I saw him shiver and I bit my lip to keep myself from reaching out arms to encircle him. “You can call me Louis. Though I’ve no idea who you are or how you know to call me such.”

“I have seen Zayn Malik’s paintings,” is all I offered, words gentle as they felt. Everything felt precarious in the night, stranger met with stranger, with only illustrious heartbeats and electric eyes to fill the silence. “I found them the most beautiful to be seen. Until I saw you, of course. Then I knew their likeness immediately. I have no doubt that you are the inspiration for any semblance of talent he may think he possesses. Though, in my eyes, it is you who are the true artist, wielding your weapons against us mere mortals. I find myself weakened by it, by you, and yet it is a feeling I am happy to surrender to.”

Louis remained silent as he listened to my words, only once breaking the stone of his visage by swallowing.

“I am apologetic only in that I have cast aggressive, forward sentiments at you,” I murmured, letting my voice tumble in its softness as I gazed down upon him. So fair, so guarded and noble. So strong beneath the confines of smooth flesh. Everything I imagined and more. “I don’t desire to make you feel discomforted by them. Though, I’m sure you are. I just need to express that which I feel. And, though you are a new acquaintance, you make me feel a lot, Louis Tomlinson.”

“I make you feel visions of grandeur,” he muttered in response, but never made to flee. Instead, he gazed upon my mouth, sending bolts though my limbs and synapses, daring only the tiniest, most optimistic parts of me to hope. “I am a face to you and nothing more.”

I shook my head. “You are everything more. Your face is merely a physical production of everything you hold inside. I am lucky to look upon such beauty but I hold nothing more to it than I do that which I feel is in every part of your soul. You are made of rarities. You are made of things I have yet to name or understand.”

“You know nothing of me.”

“I only know that which you make me feel,” I continued, passionate and unyielding as I coaxed the words out with my hands. “And, considering I am a lonely soul who only finds solace in the inanimate, who wanders the streets in boredom and never cherishes body nor spirit… I must imprint on you how very startling all of this is for me as much as it is must be for you. I am the victim to a grand scheme and I am allowing myself to fall helplessly into it.” Wildly, I felt a surge of courage as I suddenly cradled my hands to his cheeks—his lovely, delicate cheekbones—and thumbed across the pale, shivered skin there. He looked to be a dream, living only amongst sleepless nights. “I wish nothing more than to be around you. Perhaps you will fix me.”

“I don’t know why you’d need to be fixed,” Louis breathed, eyes fluttering as my hands framed his face. His eyes fell before I urged them back to mine. “You are strange. But you speak so…” He shook his head, lips thin. “You create something very wonderful, young man. I don’t know your name or anything of your existence. But you seem to tie mine to yours.”

“I’m Harry. Harry Styles,” I rushed, alight, _burning_ at his words. “It’s nothing spectacular but it’s all I have for a name. I have endless amounts of money and no source of entertainment and I’ve never craved companionship before I knew of your existence. Together we could create a universe.”

Louis breathed, steady and dark. His eyes were laced with intrigue, weariness in his chin. “You certainly make it feel so.”

I leaned closer, allowing myself to press my words into his ear, feeling the shiver they evoked. “I can immortalize you far more than he ever could, than _any_ artist ever could. I will not paint you. I will live you, I will breathe you. I will cast your name into the sky and lay your body in the earth. You are beautiful, Louis Tomlinson, and I am going mad for you.”

When we parted, Louis’ lips looked darkened by shadow, his eyes sunken and cutting as they searched mine. His chest rose with each breath. “I will follow you into your insanity, then,” he mused, a faint quirk to his lips. “I know nothing of you and I cherish that. Plus, you know what they say…”

“I’m sure it’s nothing of importance,” I dismissed weakly, breath caught in my throat as his smile grew.

“Fools rush in,” he quipped, a twinkle alighting his face, and the impishness of it all set me aflame.

I was gone, perhaps forever.

“May I see you tomorrow?” I asked before I could lose the nerve. Shivers erupted on our skin from the harshness of a breeze.

“You may,” Louis nodded, mysterious and amused. His hair was tousled and messy, wisps quivering. A perfect bed for my fingers. “Find me and I’m all yours.”

“I will find you,” I promised.

And the night washed us away, leaving his skin imprinted on my fingertips.

*

Every day after, I saw him.

Every single day, I would meet him and I lost myself, truly, in this man. This boy. This galaxy. If I was living before, I was immortal now, for the very existence of Louis Tomlinson inspired enough beauty and imagination within the confines of my reality that I found a new plane of existence.

“You seem buoyant, lad,” Liam remarked one day as he threw away all of his clothes. His newest obsession—a woman named Caroline who made clothes out of strips of fabric she collected as she traveled—had convinced him that he needed to discard every article he’d ever purchased. Naturally, he did without question. “Have you found yourself a hobby, then? What is it that you do with your life? I’ve never understood.”

“Neither have I,” I replied calmly, toeing at a pair of jeans. “Until I found Louis Tomlinson, that is.”

“Oh?” Liam straightened. “He’s real, then?”

I nodded solemnly, hands in my pockets. “I’m in love, more fervently than I thought possible. I’m gone for him, Liam. I’m lost, perhaps even to myself, and I know nothing else but him.”

He laughed, delighted as he continued his haul. “But you know me, surely. And Niall.”

“Yes, I know you. Not like I know him, though.”

“Naturally.”

The rest of the day was spent with me helping him carry armfuls of his clothes to the dumpster. It was oddly cathartic, especially when we split a joint in the alley before picking up pizza from across the street, the cheese dripping down our smoky throats.

“I’ll bring him here one day,” I promised, eyes far away as we walked back to the flat. “You will meet him and you will understand everything I feel. You won’t find me so fanatical.”

“Yes, bring him,” he grinned easily as we began to climb the steps. “Bring him and convince me that Louis Tomlinson is real.”

*

“I’m finding myself in love with you,” I whispered one night as I clutched Louis to my chest.

We were lying in my bed, fully clothed and half-asleep. Louis’d just returned from one of his plays. The hours he lived were chaotic and the pay was weak but he refused to obtain any job that wasn’t part of his idealistic dream and it was one of the many reasons I found him perfect. He was perpetually exhausted and beautiful and he spun the webs of his life in clever hands. He was never a victim—always the victor.

“That’s not quite possible, Harry,” he whispered back, hands tightening around me.

I allowed myself a smile, pulling him flush to my chest. He snuffled against the buttons of my shirt, gripping the white satin fabric in his fist as he closed his eyes. He was utterly perfect, still moreso whenever he was with me. Immaculate in every way. He believed in nothing and yet lived for everything and he sometimes kept me at arm’s length because he knew nothing else. His life was a tragic mystery, a sad tilt of the mouth, and he was everything and more of what I wished I could be. He lived his dreams and poured his soul onto the stage, leaving nothing else for anybody—except, maybe, myself.

To me, he whispered his truths and pressed hands into my flesh and delicately kissed my lips whenever the shadows hit just right. He entwined our hands as we walked amongst our dreams and quoted his lines and marveled at my spilled words and wondered at my harried thoughts, and our entire existence, which had come to exist so uniformly, consisted of other-worldly time spent in this very upended world. I would hold him and Louis would let himself be held.

It’s the kind of love I never knew existed and could never live without again.

“I cannot exist without you,” I replied, feeling the knobs of his spine. His body was slack against mine, his hands cold. “I demand to always wake up by your side.”

“Hm,” Louis hummed, his lips faintly quirking. He wasn’t one to throw open affection, wasn’t one to feel largely sentimental. Yet, as time passed, he’d begun to fit himself into my side, openning himself to my adoration. It was a wonder to watch and I was never anything but thankful for the opportunity. “I demand to never be removed from such a place, then.”

It was as good as an ‘I love you’ back.

I tightened my grip on him and fell into a restful sleep, our lungs perfectly matched.

*

It was sometime later, perhaps a year after Louis and I’s union, that I stumbled upon Zayn Malik again.

We were in the same line in the same coffee shop, impatiently waiting for caffeine. He spotted me first, his murky gaze holding me in place. Quietly, he sloped towards me, his shoulder slouched.

“Harry, right?” he murmured.

I nodded, eying him. “Yes. Hello, Zayn.”

He nodded in return, but his eyes never drifted. We stood in silence, carefully stepping forwards as the line shortened gradually.

I felt the question before it finally came.

“Did you ever find him, then?” he asked, softly enough to be lost in the morning buzz.

I heard them though, and I turned to him, wondering if I should regale him with tales of our story, of our love, of our promises. I wondered if I should tell him how I probably still smelt of him, having not had time to shower before I left the flat, and thus his warm embrace, that morning. I wondered if I should show him the screen of my phone and the picture of us that lie there quietly. I wondered if he should know that I knew who Louis Tomlinson was, more than any other person on this earth did, and that I existed alongside him effortlessly. Beautifully. Eternally. That he was _my_ muse now.

Instead, however, I merely smiled. “I did,” replied, words rich with satisfaction.

His gaze sharpened before it fell. Somehow, he seemed to understand.

We walked forward, the end of the line in sight.

“So you found him to exist, then,” Zayn mumbled, unable to truly voice all that he was searching for.

I could only nod, content at the world before me. “Yes, I did,” I sighed. “Nothing else but him exists.”

He nodded, silence falling over us again as we moved still forward.

It was just as we reached the till that he turned back to me, grabbing my hand and stuffing a small shred of paper into it.

“Then I believe this is yours now,” he said, words slipping out of his mouth effortlessly, before he departed in an instant, never meeting my gaze.

Curious, I glanced down at the crumpled paper in my hands, worn from time and written in fountain pen in a penmanship I couldn’t identify.

It said but one thing:

_‘I believe in Louis Tomlinson.’_

**Author's Note:**

> This was bizarre and unsatisfying, eh? I knooowwww! ;)
> 
> For tea, find me at misswilde on the tumblrrr. Thank you for your time! All hail Oscar Wilde! :)


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